Miss Plympton looked still more troubled. "I--I--don't know what to
say," she faltered.

"You mean _death_!" cried Edith, in an excited voice; "and oh! I
needn't ask who. There's only one--only one. I had only one--only
one--and now--he is--gone!"

"Gone," repeated Miss Plympton, mechanically, and she said no more; for
in the presence of Edith's grief, and of other facts which had yet to be
disclosed--facts which would reveal to this innocent girl something
worse than even bereavement--words were useless, and she could find
nothing to say. Her hand wandered through the folds of her dress, and
at length she drew forth a black-edged letter, at which she gazed in an
abstracted way.

"Let me see it," cried Edith, hurriedly and eagerly; and before Miss
Plympton could prevent her, or even imagine what she was about, she
darted forward and snatched the letter from her hand. Then she tore it
open and read it breathlessly. The letter was very short, and was
written in a stiff, constrained hand. It was as follows:

"DALTON HALL, _May_ 6, 1840.

"Madame,--It is my painful duty to communicate to you the death of
Frederick Dalton, Esq., of Dalton Hall, who died at Hobart Town, Van
Diemen's Land, on the 2d of December, 1839. I beg that you will impart
this intelligence to Miss Dalton, for as she is now of age, she may wish
to return to Dalton Hall.

"I remain, madame,